


time, as a symptom

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Filling in backstory, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Mostly Canon Compliant, Non-Sexual Intimacy, One Shot Collection, Slice of Life, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-19 16:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: Everything worth something is fragile, her father tells her, and ruffles her hair.
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges & Fragile
Comments: 17
Kudos: 46





	1. muscular

**Author's Note:**

> back with more fragile!  
> this is a collection of short pieces centered on fragile that i wrote over the course of playing the game. then i cleaned up and edited some, added a little to others, realized i had 16 that i liked so they would fit evenly into a chaptered fic, etc....they differ in subject matter and style, some are scenes, some are really more like extended headcanons. i tried to make them flow together. it jumps back and forth in time, also, because i like the heavy use of flashbacks in game. apologies if it's confusing
> 
> about shipping--i think this will do it for you if you ship fragile/sam but it's not like. there's no kiss-and-get-together type of thing. just the delicate line of intimate friendship.

Her father has two children, her and the Express, so it seems only natural that they have the same name. As is common in this new world. He hung on to their family name for a long time, her father. Married into it. She lets it go and feels some relief on the day it no longer comes easily to her mind.

Everything worth something is fragile, he tells her, and ruffles her hair.

Her father teaches her a lot of things. How to talk to people, though she’s never good at it the way he is. Fragile never becomes the kind of person who can convince others to believe in a cause. She’s always just a little off the mark--a little too intense for most people. But for the Express, she leads with a quiet confidence that inspires loyalty.

Most of her lessons are out on the road. Even with all her father’s old-world connections, he tells her there’s no tool better than the human body. Some things can only be carried with your own hands, on your own feet. So she spends her adolescence scaling cliffs and struggling through snow in the center of the fractured country. All while hearing about how the world used to be a place where people looked out for each other, and how it’s up to them to make it that way again.

The days are exhausting, but idyllic, and stand in stark contrast to her nightmares. In these dreams everyone is alone, and the tar-slick ocean comes to swallow them all. Fragile runs and runs and is only ever safe when she finds herself on the expanse of grey sand she will come to know as her Beach.

She’s officially contracted as the youngest member of the Express when her powers arrive in full. Far too young to be working as a porter, but her father assures that she won’t break easy, and whatever apprehensions people might have are eased the first time she walks them through a field of BTs. 

She never gets an exact number, but the fact that she can see them clearly means high DOOMS. It’s no sixth sense, no blurry outlines: the figures hang in the air as clear and real as living people, every inky detail of them. A new kind of fear takes root in her as she guides porters across. If it’s only her, she can always jump away from danger. Now there are consequences. Now, her father reminds her, it’s up to her to take care of others.

Her father teaches her how to shoot. Animals, mostly, but humans just in case. A list of ways to break a body: head, heart, lungs, stomach.

Fragile can’t stomach it even with holograms, but she takes to anatomy.

Those first months after are the hardest, as Fragile re-learns her body. Her skin tears and bruises, wrinkles and spots and she wishes on her enemy the sheer fucking inconvenience of having to get checked for skin cancer, of all the stupid ways she could die. She can’t stay warm, the capillaries near the surface too aged, and warm air dries her out even worse anyway. It’s the mundane, daily discomfort of it all that enrages her the most. He could have just killed her. Instead, she has to live like this.

Getting back to work is a nearly hopeless effort. They can’t afford to turn down work, not with her reputation ruined. So she drags her body up mountains, through mud. The rain may only have gone skin-deep, but everything is wrong. She’s an instrument out of tune. She distrusts her own steps, struggles to find her sense of balance. And every time she steps wrong and slips, every time she misjudges a distance, every time her body makes contact with the rocks and ground she feels that too-thin skin tear horribly. It’s all she can do not to scream.

Maybe Higgs was right. That she lost her edge in vanity. Most days it’s only to prove him wrong that she gets back up and tries again.

But she can’t push herself the way she used to. She has to consider her health now. Before, the bleeding was a minor inconvenience. She was young and strong and she could shake it off. Now, jumping too much leaves her laid up for days, too dizzy to stand. Forget connecting people. Forget looking out for everyone. Even walking distances that would have been nothing before is exhausting. As if the wear on her skin is seeping further, down into her bones. Every little injury, every scrape and bruise takes ages to heal.

None of it brings her any closer to her goal. Fragile can’t lie to herself and say she’s getting stronger. Every day spent aching and alone is more wasted time. The idea of revenge is a cold comfort when she’s examining the fresh, ugly bruises on her withered body.

Her face, at least, she can keep pristine as if it’s some kind of threat display, the last part of her she can still control. If Higgs wants a testament then she’ll give him one, alright. And if people want to see a terrorist, she doesn’t have it in her to correct them. A certain amount of fear and austerity is to her benefit, anyway. Black leather becomes more her body than the body is as she tries, pointlessly, to carve it into a new symbol.

His symbol was clear: this is what trying to help people gets her. A city erased from the earth. Her body its own kind of crater.

Any kind of normal weather is a relief after the eerie green auroras and flashes of blood-red light that had dominated the sky in their moment of apocalypse. But today it's actually sunny, the warm and lasting kind, not the thin and shallow might-rain-any-minute sun that fills most days. The weather has been better since Sam returned from the Beach. As if the world itself is happy to see him.

Technically he's supposed to be on bed rest. But sunshine aside, the world is still the world and people still need supplies to live. And despite the lingering shakiness in her limbs, Fragile is apparently cleared to chaperone, so long as they stick to milk runs and stay away from trouble. She decides not to mention that if anyone is capable of keeping Sam out of trouble, it's definitely not her. Better not to jeopardize the UCA's trust in her or risk missing out on these precious hikes.

It's been a while since she and Sam went out together, even before his leave of absence. Things had moved so quickly. Work seems relaxing in comparison. Sam's presence, too, is relaxing. There's never a need for small talk between them. Only what's necessary. (And pointing out the occasional surviving wildlife, or whistling a tuneless song, or Sam's habitual murmurs of frustration to himself--these things are necessary too.)

Their paces match well, but what she has in agility is nothing compared to Sam's dogged determination over vast distances. He has a good sense of when she needs to rest, though, and never complains or condescends. Just holds his hand out for the snack he knows she’s about to offer.

They're taking it easier than they would have before, both of them still settling back into their bodies. With the sun so high, Fragile has no qualms about folding her umbrella shut and using it to walk with, the slight tremble when it nears chiralium preferable to her shaky legs. They pick out an easy path to the northeast of the mountains, over rolling hills dotted equally with rocks and soft white flowers, lush clover.

“Fuck!” Sam hisses from somewhere behind her, making Fragile instinctively whip her head up in concern.

“Hair tie.” He says, by way of explanation, holding the remains of the little band up. “Snapped.”

The strands are already curling loose around his face, in his hood, covering his eyes. It’s grown even faster in the time he spent on the Beach. Today's sun gives it a lovely color, rich warm brown speckled with dark grey from timefall. She wonders if he ever cuts it.

“Don’t suppose you have one.” Sam’s voice snaps her out of staring.

Fragile shakes her head, runs her fingers through her own freshly cut hair. And offers, without really thinking, “I could braid it for you?”

She doesn’t expect him to consider it, much less to shrug and start loosening the straps of his cargo.

They sit cross-legged in the thick grass. Fragile takes her gloves off and tries to smother the dregs of self-consciousness. She's been wearing them less and less lately, and really only for the sake of protecting her delicate skin. 

They’ve shared a few touches now, since she sent him to the Beach, but she doesn’t want to overstep. Sam stiffens at the first brushes of her fingers near his face and she tries her best to pull the hair back without touching his skin. Best to get it over with quickly. Fragile wastes no time starting with a larger braid down the back, pulling pieces of his bangs into it. It's harder than she expected, and not just from lack of practice. Her hands are more shaky than they used to be, her fingers less quick. Usually, she avoids looking at her hands this much.

Sam tugs at the long grass, winds it around his fingers. “Where’d you learn this?” It's as much a distraction for the both of them as a genuine question.

“My father taught me. I had it long as a kid.”

“Hard to imagine.”

“It didn’t last.” By the time she was ten she was sick of it, had taken initiative and hacked away at it with shears, much to her father's amusement. “Gets in the way, as you know.”

Sam hmms a little in agreement and they fall back into their comfortable silence. He’s started to relax now that she’s just running her fingers through his hair, winding until she gets lost in the pattern. Over, under, over. It’s been a very long time since she touched another person like this.

He takes a deep breath like he’s about to say something, then lets it go. The grass bites into his skin where he twists it tighter and tighter until it snaps.

“Bridget always wanted me to keep it long. And then she wanted it short. Looked neater. My—” Sam stops, and she stops touching him. Watches the way his shoulders raise, the way he curls slightly in on himself. Waits for his posture to relax before she starts braiding again. “Other people thought so too. So.”

There's other information there, in between the words, in the way his tone is heavy as if this is a big, horrible secret he’s revealed. Fragile is silent for a moment. She knows what is in the official records that Deadman has nudged her way, and nothing else. And she won’t push for more than he wants to share. But it’s unfair--that Sam, who has helped her carry so much, who has somehow always known just the right thing to say to her, should have to carry his pain alone. So she’s as gentle as she can be when she pulls the braid tight. It’s the least she can do.

“It suits you like this.” A stupid thing to say, maybe, but she means it. It's beautiful, and it's hard to imagine him without it. 

Fragile leans around him, checking the sides and front. It looks as haphazard as it is, but there are a few places where she can be proud of her work--the handsome plait down the back, the small braid tucked behind his bitten ear. It's out of his eyes at least. “Well, maybe not like _this_ exactly.”

He laughs a little, the short breathy _hah_ barely more than an exhale. From Sam, it means the world. "That bad, huh?"

It’s terribly endearing, but she won’t say that. “We should get moving. It’s not going to hold for long.” Fragile stands, ignoring the ache in her bones, and extends a hand to help him up. He takes it.

When her father dies, she carries the body to the incinerator herself. So that’s another thing they all have in common.

Fragile disappears. Goes to her Beach for days and runs barefoot and ignores the shock all the way up through her knees. Her story, later, is that in her grief she just couldn’t stand being around other people, but it’s a flimsy excuse. She's heard tall tales, they all have: loved ones glimpsed from a distance, or found in time for one last conversation, or taken in hand back to the world of the living. If the Beach is the waiting room between life and death, then surely it's the most likely place for a miracle. All she gets for her effort is sore feet and dead fish smell and her face made ugly by crying; real, bodily, screaming sobs, not chiral allergy tears.

In the world of the living, where little time has passed, she gets her shit together and takes up her father’s legacy. She makes it clear to the rest of the Express that if they work under this name, they’re working for her, and they’re more than welcome to strike out on their own if that’s a problem. From there it’s a matter of logistics, planning and contracts.

Plenty of people approach her, tell her how sorry they are for the loss. It’s only what’s expected—the Express kept most of these communities alive. And her father was a good person. So a lot of people say their pleasantries, but only Higgs shows up at her private room with pizza and a card.

He’s there to talk shop, of course. But Fragile hasn’t eaten properly in at least a week now. And if she really tallies it up, she doesn’t have many friends so much as business associates. Of which Higgs might now be the closest. It’s not exactly a comforting thought.

“…we’ll do it cross country.” Higgs is saying over their food. He’s as animated as ever—if he’s noticed her mood, he’s deliberately elected to ignore it. But she doesn’t mind. Prefers his endless talk to being left alone with her thoughts. “You’ve got a good hold on the center already, hell, we could give Bridges a run for their money if we push east. Not that we gotta go that route, of course. But between you, me, a couple of brave souls…we could really have something, Fragile.” His eyes glitter beneath the mask. “No one else is looking out for the people out here.”

She expects the words to pass right through her, like everything has since her father’s death. Yet despite herself, she’s paying attention. Her father would have liked the idea.

“Collaboration.” She finds herself saying. “We’re not merging our operations.”

Higgs nods. “Of course not. Gotta protect what your daddy gave you, right?”

Fragile shoots him a glare but finds him placid, thoughtfully chewing his pizza. He’s always like that, never quite clear whether he’s mocking or melancholy. It will take some getting used to if they work together.

“If,” she says, “ _if_ we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it seriously. We need to plan teams, supply routes. Tomorrow we can look at the map and plot our client bases, see where we’re not covering and how we can remedy that.”

“If we’re going to do this,” Higgs says, mimicking her tone, “You oughta explain to me how that trick of yours works.”


	2. epithelial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fragile remembers her body being strong, but there’s no strength in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading so far, this is a very self indulgent little thing so i really appreciate it!

The first time she meets Higgs is back when her father was still alive. He just happens to be passing through, you see, and he’s been establishing his very own delivery business so might he just ask you fine folks a few logistical questions? Fragile was working on the boat that day, wearing a jumpsuit undone to the waist, her shoulders bared to the sun. Only later does she realize that may have made some kind of impression.

Higgs hangs around them like a stray dog, though he’s pretending not to. They talk a little, once or twice, and she can gather that he was raised by a less than ideal sort of parent. So she doesn’t begrudge him the time and interest, not then.

They cross paths now and then over the next couple years, and every time she marvels at how he’s managed to carve himself a better position despite his preternatural talent for getting under people’s skin. But under the attitude is a man who cares about community. She respects that, and the way he takes care of his own, and his survival in this world despite the odds. For he still has the affect of a scrawny kid playing dress-up in his flashy clothes, his mask. She’s seen his face only on rare occasions and watches over the years as the replacement becomes more and more ostentatious.

Working together is a matter of inevitability in this part of the country. Only so many porters who aren’t UCA, and the number drops lower and lower every year. Landslides, frostbite, voidouts. It’s safer to go in groups. At least in the worst case scenario, one of you can shoot the other.

So Fragile’s not surprised to catch him on a mountain road, sun glinting off his mask like a sign to advertise: Higgs Monaghan Is Here. It’s been a while. She waves him down.

"Fragile." He drawls by way of greeting, a lazy wave curling his fingers. He always says her name this particular way, like he's really chewing over the connotations, the _i_ dragged out so it turns into _fra-giiiiile._ It won't bother her yet, not for years to come.

He’s coming from the remains of the west coast with boxes on boxes of cargo. Trinkets and letters going this way, supplies going back. Fragile’s just doing her part to keep the preppers going out here. It’s been a harsh winter: plenty of injuries, fewer and fewer porters capable of making the trek. Still, no matter how bad it gets, the Express keeps running. Her father insists. It’s easier with the jumping, means she only has to make one trip.

Easier too, Higgs suggests, with two people. With the extra hands and rope they can climb right through the mountains rather than taking the long and marshy route around. They sit together shoulder to shoulder and chart a path on their maps, trading bits of knowledge: a footpath here, a steep cliff there. Fragile shares her lunch and does not comment on how Higgs always eats like it’s going to be his last meal. They set out while the sun’s still high, bright in defiance of the cold.

Higgs is chatty as they climb, eager to share about how rough it’s been out west. Fragile doesn’t mind. She figured out early on that the man’s either very lonely or enamored with his own voice. It’s when he gets quiet that trouble usually starts. But that day, something in his tone is striking a chord. She’s been thinking about it herself lately, about how long they can all keep going like this. What happens when she’s the only one who can make this run? What about when even she can’t?

Cutting over the mountain proves to be a mistake. Snow starts coming down fast and soon it’s hard to pick out the route. Too slippery to climb, too, so they follow the shape of the mountain. It herds them into a pass that should slope easily into the valley below, so long as they keep moving forward.

But the chill settles over both of them at the same time, their gift made manifest in the way they both freeze in place. Twin bodies flooded with sudden adrenaline. There’s no mistaking it for anything but their sixth sense.

“You too, huh.” Higgs takes his volume down for once, though there’s a new lilt to his voice. “What level?”

Fragile shrugs. She never did learn her number. “I can see them clearly. You?”

He’s actually about to whistle before he catches himself. “Sometimes. When the other side feels like playing nice.” In his eyes she can clearly see the grin beneath the mask as he reaches out his hand. “You wanna lead this dance?”

If she were alone, she would walk through like a ghost. If she were with anyone else, she would insist they turn back and go around. But with Higgs…

“Watch our backs,” she whispers, taking his hand. “And don’t fuck around. I’m trusting you.”

Hands entwined, they set off through the pass. She can always jump away, of course, but she’s never tried it with another person. And even if she could, that’s more people with their medicine aging away in the snow, abandoned.

The skin crawls on the back of her neck as she walks them between the BTs, threads them like a needle. Every crunching footprint in the snow makes her wince. Higgs grips her hand tight every so often, signaling one of the figures behind them on the move. She squeezes back: keep moving, we’ll be fine.

The pass gets agonizingly narrow before it opens up, and they have to press their backs to the snow-covered stone to avoid the last of the BTs. It’s a small group, at least, clustered together over some sort of wreck in the snow. It’s hard not to wonder who died there. But she stays focused on their goal, the faint lightening of the sky up ahead. It's a straight shot, the path clear in front of them.

Higgs yanks her arm hard, pulls them both down into the snow seconds before the dull thud of a hand slams into the rock wall above them. They shudder there for a moment, holding their breath as the BT floats just overhead. It's an ugly thing, dripping black and making her eyes run with chiral tears. She could jump. She _should_ jump. This close to them, there's no way it won't notice. Higgs must come to the same conclusion because he locks eyes with her and holds up a count of fingers: 3, 2, 1.

Still clinging together they sprint, dragging each other through the snow. The thing howls behind them horribly, the scrape of its hands right on their heels.

And then they’re sliding and stumbling into the open snow, the first shelters dotting the mountainside suddenly visible in the distance. Trained discipline says: that was too close. But there’s something else there, an exhilaration that goes beyond the adrenaline rush and makes her join Higgs as he cheers and howls just to hear the echo of their voices.

As soon as they’re in the clear, he starts chattering again. The whole way down the mountain he won’t stop asking questions—what she thinks about their nightmares, about death, about the Beach. The snow starts to clear up as they go. Timefall melts and freezes into harmless icicles.

They make it in record time.

She doesn’t really remember most of it. Just breaking into a sprint, the thunder like a gunshot to signal the start of her race. Then adrenaline takes over, turns the whole thing into an aching blur.

Higgs watches the whole time. That she remembers. When it’s done, she stands at the edge of the lake. Stands in the rain for a few extra seconds, loses another couple years so she can look up at him and meet his eyes and think, with unbreakable certainty: _I am going to ruin you._ Maybe she says it out loud, she can’t remember. Then she jumps away to nowhere. To her Beach.

Fragile stays on the Beach for days and days that spiral into one unending moment. Wasting even more of her precious time. She lays naked on the sand and stares up at the figures that sometimes appear in the sky. They see her. They see what he did to her. Death passes no judgment on it. She does not look at her body.

She jumps back to the world of the living. She burns the tattered remains of her clothes. She showers the tar and the petrichor smell of timefall off her. She does not look at her body. She dresses in the dark without looking. She begins the slow work of putting her reputation back together.

It is nearly a month before Fragile steels herself to it. Strips down in front of the mirror and forces herself to take inventory of her body, her most important tool.

Any attempts at being poetic fail her. Her body looks fucking old. It is an ugly thing to see. Her skin is wrinkled. What else is there to say? Trying to find a metaphor, trying to make something beautiful of it would be cowardly. So she forces herself instead to make note of every crease and line, every place her skin sags with nothing to support it, every darker patch of skin out of place. All those days she spent enjoying the sun, not thinking about what it could cost, not knowing this body was never going to see the light again. Worst are the parts where her body doesn’t look old so much as it simply looks wrong, because the skin is not supposed to run on a different clock from the fat and the muscle.

Her limbs took the worst of it, the aging skin there practically transparent. Weathered and paper-thin, the veins standing out. She can see the bones of the hand in the mirror move when she flexes it back and forth, searching for the muscle memory of its position. It still feels the weight of the bomb clutched to her chest.

Fragile remembers her body being strong, but there’s no strength in this. The body in the mirror doesn’t look like it could lift a thing. It looks like it would break at the slightest touch.

It’s already changed in her mind, the idea of _her_ being replaced with _her body_. Her body, the body, as if it’s a separate entity out of her control. Because it is out of her control. It’s cargo she’s carrying around. Dead weight.

 _Don’t worry_ , she thinks, absurdly, to the body in the mirror. _Eventually I’ll catch up._

However convenient her power might be for them, it’s become clear that Sam likes a good journey as much as the destination. So when he suggests a day trip, she packs her things without asking where.

They hike from Lake Knot, on and off the patchwork of roads. A couple years ago she would have foregone the highways, but now her body is thankful for an easier path. The rough sand echoing off the lake slowly turns rougher until it’s all black jagged stone and barely anything that could be called flat ground.

It’s clear that he’s looking for something, so Fragile lets him lead. Watching Sam walk is always entertaining. He’s as good as his reputation claims. And well suited to this environment, climbing from rock to rock like a mountain goat. His slight frown of concentration has become endearingly familiar, as is the way he’s always making quiet sounds, muttering to himself more than to her. 

He waves her over the stream, where the sand and stone turns into rich black soil. Nestled between the rocks is a pool barely big enough to be a hot spring. Steam rolls up from the water in a steady wave. It has a salty, mineral smell.

“You’ve been here before,” she says to Sam, already undoing his suit.

“A couple times.” He shrugs the straps off his shoulders. There’s something precious about knowing this is how he chooses to relax. “Supposed to be good for you.”

Ah, there it is. Doubtful it will do her much good, but the thought counts for something. She starts on the zipper of her jacket anyway. Sam dutifully turns around before she can tell him not to look. Not that it matters. Sam has seen—she’s let him see.

The pool is surprisingly deep and Fragile sighs as she sinks in up to her neck. The only thing not obscured is the tops of her shoulders and well, Sam’s seen that.

It’s warm. Nice. The water is white and cloudy with minerals. If she looks down, she doesn’t see anything. Just water, whiteness. Not anything.

Her body feels suspended, weightless—it’s probably the salt content but it’s a relief, regardless of what it is. No cold, no aching, no bruising, no body at all. And the warm water isn’t just an absence but pleasant everywhere she’s sore and tired. They’ve been working hard, these past months.

“Yeah, I know.” She must have made a face, because Sam is nodding in agreement. “First time I came here I stayed so long I nearly passed out.”

“You might have to drag me out.” Fragile admits, and closes her eyes. Warm and weightless in a way she hasn’t felt in years, long before what happened, even.

She loses track of time. At some point, Sam starts humming as he splashes the water over his face and hair. For all the times he stumbles into a distribution center covered in blood or grime, he’s very methodical about his bathing.

His skin is marked from the neck down. Not the way she is, of course, though there are the scattered spots where timefall touched. Those worn places fit into a mosaic of hands and wounds, some scarred, some red and raw. Most of them are nameless, anonymous, but her eyes are always drawn to the outline of their first meeting written upon his arm. It blends into the broad strokes of the painting—her handprint, the angry line under his cuffs, the black tattoo on the back of his hand gone blurry with time.

“I want a tattoo.” She hears herself say. Sam looks up from the water and blinks at her.

He nods a little, like he understands. “What of?”

“I don’t know yet.” _Only that it needs to be mine_. “Do you know someone who can?”

Sam looks at her. Looks at the wrinkled skin of her exposed shoulders, studying, and she bears it. “Tell me when you decide. I’ll do it.”

“Really?” It makes sense, now that she considers it. Easy to picture him armed with a needle, etching the little lines into himself. It’s a reminder of how much she doesn’t know about him. They lived whole lives before they met each other. “Are you okay with that?”

“Said so, didn’t I?” Sam leans back, his own body vanishing into the water. “When you’re ready, I’ll be ready.”

Fragile moves her hand just below the surface, watches the withered shape of it appear and disappear. He was right, the water really does feel good. “If you’re sure. I’ll think of something.” Now that the idea has been posed, she’s surprised at how fiercely she wants it. There’s no one else she would trust with her skin.

“I’m sure you understand why I’d prefer to take a look at you out here. We just can’t be too careful these days.”

Fragile feels very far outside her body. The Doctor’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from far away--well, really it is, somewhere deep underground and only filtered through the tinny speakers into the shelter. Because they won’t let her in. Because she associates with terrorists.

“Of course.” She hears herself say. Her hands are unzipping her jacket, but it doesn’t feel like she’s moving them. “Can’t trust anyone lately.”

She steps into the light so the shelter cameras can pick up the details of her ruined skin. She tries not to think about it. Tries not to hear the quiet _oh my_ over the speakers. It’s just a body, just a body that happens to be hers. It’s cold up here in the mountains and she shivers as she strips down. Still getting used to having such poor circulation.

A month ago, preppers would have welcomed her in with open arms. The Express is--was--the lifeblood of these communities. And now that connection is all but severed, all because of her naivete. Fragile did what she could, told the truth to the authorities, such as they are. The director of Bridges had done his best to preserve her reputation, to very little result. Naive of her to think they could do anything. Naive of her too to think she could rely on these people, to think she wouldn’t be left out here exposed again--

Fuck. Calm down. You can always jump away if you have to.

Fragile focuses on her breathing as the Doctor looks her over from afar. He’s saying something about her skin, about avoiding sunlight. Not like that’s going to be a problem.

“What about bruising?” She hears herself say. “It happens all the time, looks awful.”

“That’s just age, I’m afraid. Be as careful as you can and wear thick layers.” Maybe seeing her crestfallen face, his tone softens. “It’s a hard part of growing old, I know. We all have to deal with it.”

“Right.” She can feel the threat of tears at the corner of her eyes and hopes he won’t notice. The nature of age, sure, which is not supposed to happen all at once. She’s envious of everyone who got to grow old. “So I shouldn’t be worried.”

“No. Although--are you taking any medications?”

Fragile shakes her head. She barely even takes the oxy supplements that most people do. “I do eat cryptobiotes. For blood loss.”

“Keep that up. It should keep the effects of the timefall from getting worse.” She doesn't want to ask how it could get worse. Though she supposes in the next few years she's going to find out, whether she likes it or not.

“You’ll need to pay attention to yourself. Come see me if anything changes. Any dark or red spots, anything you’re not sure about. Can’t be too careful.” Paying attention to it is the last thing she's prepared to do. These days she dresses in the dark, tries to avoid looking at her body as much as possible. “And, if you’ll forgive me saying so…”

Fragile folds her arms across her chest, silent and impassive. The cold has seeped into the pit of her stomach.

“You might want to think about retiring. Porter life is hard enough for a young person.” He doesn't sound cruel as he says it, that's the worst part. His voice is all professional concern, none of the anger that people have been taking out on her--rightfully so. But the message is still the same. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate all that Fragile Express has done for us. But--”

“Your concern’s appreciated, but it’s not necessary.” It doesn’t matter what state her body’s in, she’ll die before she lets Higgs take her father’s legacy from her, the only thing she really has left. ”I’m not that fragile.” It sounds insincere even as it rolls easily off her tongue.

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the chilly air of the shelter entrance. It feels like her skin is prickling, stinging with the sensation of eyes on her. Observing, evaluating, judging.

“Well! You’re cleared to go, then. Stay safe out there.” The speakers crackle and shut off.

She can’t get her jacket back on fast enough, nearly jumps out of the shelter. The cold outside is bitter. It feels like it passes right through her thin skin to settle, painfully, in her bones. Though nothing deeper than the surface should have been affected, she can’t help but wonder about arthritis. As if she doesn’t have enough to deal with.

Even the short walk back to Mountain Knot sounds exhausting. There at least Lockne keeps people from asking too many questions. She’s not too keen on connections herself lately, focused on looking out for her own. Fragile doesn’t blame her. It’s hard enough just taking care of yourself.

But she’ll have to manage. Revenge isn’t going to come easy to her in this condition, alone with a broken body. Something has to change. She takes a deep breath, steels herself against the cold, and sets off up the mountain path. One step at a time.


	3. nervous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fragile doesn’t remember the first time she jumped, but she knows the way her father told the story by heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am going to break from canon a little because i think it's very silly that fragile and higgs are supposed to be having their conversation just in the background somewhere on amelie's beach. hilarious concept to be sure but does not make a great deal of sense.

It’s only after her father dies that she really becomes good at the jumping. Preliminary research on DOOMS talks about understanding the nature of death for each person. And maybe it says something about her that her conception of death is _transitory_ but Fragile doesn’t think that’s it. More like it’s all the time spent on her Beach. Not wanting to be in the world of the living. Not wanting to be alone.

It’s still like that for her, sometimes. Her Beach is a place of pause, repose. With the way time barely passes, she can rest as long as she needs here before snapping back into reality. No one ever the wiser.

She understands, abstractly, the multiverse theory. That every person’s Beach is their own and that all are true, layered upon each other but never touching. Still, it’s only following Sam that she really understands just how much her Beach is hers and hers alone.

Her Beach is a proper beach, but it's featureless compared to the others she experiences, few landmarks to speak of. No corpses in the water. No islands in the sea. The waves are gentler, the wind more still. Storms occasionally blossom in the distance, but never reach the shore. Grey sand stretches out in an endless arc, reaching for a horizon that never comes into view. Sometimes the edges of the sea and sky blend together into a blurry watercolor.

It feels a little like coming home, every time, to the place she spent so much of her childhood wandering. A little like safety, like having control over something greater than a broken body she can’t trust. Even if this place also takes from her body little by little, she can’t give that up.

Fragile knows every grain of sand on the Beach, knows exactly where to walk so that she’ll step over the invisible threshold. When she was young, it would take her hours, then minutes, then seconds. Pacing through the sand, eyes closed in concentration, feeling out the chiral currents.

Now, her jumps happen in an instant. No one she carries with her will pass through her Beach for more than a second, barely noticeable so long as they’re focused on their destination. When she first brings Deadman across, she lets them pause to see the Beach he’s so fascinated by. They walk for a little while, but soon he’s dizzied by the way the space moves. They rest on the sand together. It’s strange, but nice--the first time in years she’s had company here.

The fine grey sand slips through his fingers, eluding attempts at study. Deadman marvels at her ability to navigate, and she shrugs off the compliment. Orienting here feels as natural as breathing. Even after what happened, her Beach was always hers. (Maybe that’s why she always pulls Sam through quick, never stops to let him see. It feels like it would mean too much.)

Scholars talk about the Beach as a waiting room before death, but she always thought of it as a station. A fork in the road. A safehouse, even. Any number of places you could go from here.

Higgs is the first other person to cross her Beach, an honor she’ll regret later. They jump in an absolute mess—him nauseous and dizzy and her on the verge of fainting—but it’s a relief to know it worked. He cheers, triumphant, even as they’re both doubled over in the sand, still grasping at each other’s hands.

Years later, she breaks his nose in the very same spot.

She drags him back to her Beach to do the honors. If it’s going to get messy, she’d rather be in familiar territory and out of earshot. The gun is awkwardly long and she wishes for something closer, more personal. She nudges it against his forehead, testing how it feels. Higgs holds her gaze, holds his breath like he’s waiting. Not defiant. Just waiting.

The sea here is no longer still, the waves louder than usual. She lets the moment wash over her. But it’s unsatisfying. Something in his eyes, in the angle of his shoulders is uncomfortably familiar. The posture of a body glimpsed in the mirror.

“You want to die.” Fragile says, more to herself than him, and then she knows she can’t do it. Or—that she could, but it really would change nothing.

Higgs shrugs as best he can with his arms tied. “World’s ending, in case you missed the memo.” It’s not what she meant and he knows it. The cold danger is suddenly back in his eyes, flashing as if to say: don’t poke at that wound.

“Fuck you.” She says, because what else can she say. Everything feels sharp and cold, a body made from hard glass angles and she doesn’t know how it’s going to shatter. “Your little plan is over before it even started. So what’s a man who wants to die going to do now, Higgs?”

“You still don’t fucking get it, do you?” That fucking smile is crawling its way onto his face again, little by little. He spits into the sand. Blood and tar, invading her space. “Poor daddy’s girl. So eager to do a good job, you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”

Fragile is not going to hit him again. She won’t. It won’t accomplish anything but giving him the satisfaction of having provoked her to violence. She’s known him long enough to know that Higgs is always out for a reaction, and violence is the one that suits him best. Give him nothing and he’ll wear himself out.

But fuck if she doesn’t want to smack the grin off his face. 

“Get to the point.” She snaps, hears her own voice as if in a dream. Same lines, same script, even with their positions reversed. She’s as trapped in it as she is in her body. Suddenly she’s just so tired of him, of the whole pointless thing. Just wants to be done with it. Unfortunately she can no sooner do that than she can get a new body.

Higgs is more than happy to talk. It’s probably been killing him not to. He’s never been very good at keeping his mouth shut. Even down on his knees with his hands tied he can’t just fucking talk to her, has to put on a show. 

All of it simply passes over her, like she’s hearing the words from somewhere underwater, the ocean drowning him out. Even the truth about Amelie, even the fact that stopping him doesn’t really stop anything. As far as she’s concerned, the world is welcome to end so long as it waits another five minutes.

Oh, but he loves a good speech. Always has. Every time he starts enjoying himself a little too much, she pushes the barrel of the gun against him and watches the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. It’s nothing. It’s not satisfying. It doesn’t change anything.

“Is that why.” she says, flat and cold, not even inflected enough to be a question. He knows what she means.

“I’m saying there is no why.” He answers, matter-of-factly, his voice surprisingly quiet and even. All the theatricality stripped away for a moment. It’s so much worse like that. “Are you asking if she told me to? Nah, Fragile, that was all me.”

And maybe deep down that’s what she was waiting to hear, because everything else falls away. Higgs, the Beach, the gun in her hand, it’s all static. Just like on that day her awareness narrows to a single point, a single thought, and the all-consuming rhythm of her body.

The waves seem so loud now, merging with the blood rushing in her ears, drowning out whatever he’s saying. Her finger finds the trigger.

She fires just over his shoulder, two sharp shots into the sand.

“Unfair.” The word slips out of her, when she should be stoic and impassive. But then it won’t stop pouring out like tar, dripping from her mouth and eyes. “I could kill you, but then you still get what you want. I could torture you and you’ll feel pain but it won’t matter, it won’t really matter, will it? There is nothing I can do to you that will equal what you’ve done to me. It’s not fucking fair.”

Higgs is wide-eyed, taken off guard by her admission of defeat. And then he starts to laugh. Quiet at first, thin and manic, then slower, louder. Like it’s the funniest fucking thing in the world. Like he can’t believe his ears.

Violence is pointless and it’s what he wants. But, Fragile realizes, hearing his stupid laugh, it will make her feel slightly better. Just for a moment.

And _that’s_ when she breaks his nose. One clean crack, resounding. His answering yell. Blood on her wrinkled hand.

They share the bed, facing away from each other. Officially, Sam doesn’t need monitoring anymore. He’s been back for three weeks, and if anything were going to happen in his sleep it would have happened by now. Still, Fragile can’t bring herself to stop, and neither can the other members of the team. By the second week Sam looks off to the side and mutters that it can’t possibly be good for her back, sitting up like that. So when it's her turn, her ritual of waiting by his bedside turns into crawling under the covers with a pillow between them. They never discuss it, but Fragile suspects she’s not the only one.

Not touching, but it’s a small enough space that she can feel the heat radiating off Sam’s back. He runs warm. It keeps her from shivering, even with her bad circulation. The undershirt she’s been wearing to bed lately is short-sleeved, exposing her arms. A deliberate experiment. She isn’t sure yet how she feels about it.

In the relative safety of a city, they don’t need to sleep in shifts. Somehow it just ends up that way. Sam sleeping soundly while she writes emails and looks over contracts, Fragile dozing while he goes about the room in his usual routine. As she drifts off she can hear him singing to himself. Too quiet to make out the words but it sounds like a lullaby, gentle and sad.

Nightmares never tended to trouble her as much as fellow DOOMS sufferers, not since she was a child. Something to do with how her beach is more familiar, maybe. Or she just doesn’t scare easily from nightmares anymore. Make her feel like shit, sure, but she’s not afraid of much. Variations on a theme, usually. A figure, or figures, in the distance that she can’t reach. Can’t help. No matter how she moves or how she pushes her body.

Fragile rolls awake from another one of these, takes a moment before she opens her eyes. The lights in the room are still low.

Sam is curled up tight on his side, still sleeping. He twitches and turns and kicks out, and would have collided with her if she weren’t quick to move. That must have been what woke her.

He’s making sounds, little fear noises and a _no_ that sounds all too familiar. She’s made her share. She reaches out to shake him—no, that’s the opposite of helpful.

“Sam.” She taps the pillow next to him instead. “Sam, wake up.”

He does, with a horrible choking gasp. It sounds like he’s drowning. Fragile moves quick to uncuff him and his hands go, instinctively, to claw at his throat.

“You’re alright, you’re alright!” She tries over the sound of his coughing. “Come on, breathe, you’re safe.”

Sam breathes, though it’s too fast and too hard, his whole body moving with it in the sharp rhythm of panic. His chest heaves violently. “Where--” He gasps out between breaths.

"Capital Knot. With me, Sam." But he can't look at her, doubles over the side of the bed. "Breathe. One, two, three..."

And he does. Still too sharply, but she keeps counting. He grips the edge of the bed, his knuckles white.

Fragile moves as close to him as she dares. The urge to reach out, to hold him is fierce and overwhelming. But she won’t risk making it worse by crowding him. Just sits beside him and watches the rise and fall of his chest start to slow.

“‘M fine.” Sam says, his voice quiet and raspy. “You don’t have to--” Another shudder goes through him.

“Do you want me to leave?” He shakes his head at the ground. “Then I’m here.”

She stops counting so it's only the sound of them breathing together, slow and steady. Even now, it’s an easy, natural rhythm to find. Has been since the first time she jumped with him. Their bodies have become accustomed to each other.

Sam is silent for a long time. For a moment Fragile thinks he’s somehow gone back to sleep. Then his voice is so quiet she barely realizes he’s speaking to her.

“Back at the tar lake. You told me you regret your choice every day.” He won’t look at her, still staring at the floor like he expects it to swallow him whole. “Do you still?”

“Yes. And no.” The answer comes out before she even thinks, but it’s honest.

Most days she still does. But for the first time in a long time, her thoughts lean towards the future. And if it hadn’t happened—if she had chosen differently—would they ever have met? Would she ever have asked for help? Without her beach, without her power, would Sam have—

“No changing the past, is there.”

She reaches her hand out, tentatively, waits for Sam’s slight nod to rest it on his back. Here she can feel him breathing, feel his heart beating, the reminders that he belongs to the world of the living. “Some things can’t be washed away.” 

Fragile doesn’t remember the first time she jumped, but she knows the way her father told the story by heart. Imagine the shock: one minute your kid is stepping from rock to rock across the river, the next she’s gone completely. Always liked to wander, that fragile thing.

It makes her feel guilty and sick even though he tells it like it’s funny. Because she does remember seeing her father afraid for the first time. Shaken with panic over his wayward daughter while she was playing on the Beach.

There’s no standard for a person like her. DOOMS is well-known by now but hardly well-understood. Especially when it's more than just visions and allergies. They manage as best they can. Someday, her father gently chides every time she ends up faint and anemic for days, she's going to learn the importance of taking care of her body.

At that age, though, she's in love with the sheer feeling of freedom and motion. Soon she's not just flickering in and out of place, but crossing distances. With a little experimentation they figure out her limits--that she can only go where the chiralium is heavy in the air and that it takes focus to find her destination, a lesson learned the hard way every time she drops herself in the middle of nowhere. 

The umbrella isn’t an umbrella, at first. Her initial idea is only a small device to read the chiral density, to pick out viable destinations. Add a compass, her father suggested, for when she gets tired of wandering. It takes different forms over the years depending on what supplies they have on hand, what preppers are willing to help. Then there’s the jacket--a gift from a client, a tailor in the hills outside Middle Knot. It’s sleeker than the rest of the gear she’s trying to manage, always some form of wires and metals and screens attached to her porter uniform.

She doesn’t find its final shape until the Bridges 1 expedition comes through, bringing researchers and engineers with it. The first time the engineer Målingen sees her getting ready for a supply run, loaded up with chiral sensors, she shakes her head and starts drawing up blueprints. Every time she comes back to South Knot, they sit together and work on it. Målingen picks up on her design sensibilities quick: it has to be functional, efficient, but sleek. And so one evening at a time it comes together. A compass that is also an umbrella, lightweight and practical, coated in enough chiralium to protect her cargo from even the worst timefall storms.

It’s nice. They’re not so far apart in age. Fragile envies her surviving family, but it’s good to know someone who gets it, who shares her feelings on the connections between people. Bridges isn’t for her, but this grand project, a network connecting people, it adds up the same. It’s about everyone looking out for each other. When the umbrella is done, she knows she judged right. It has a good weight in her hands, shivers and flutters in concert with her very thoughts.

In the end, her precision comes less from tools and more from practice, years of time spent on her beach. There’s no substitute for focus and a clear mind. But with the umbrella it's gentler somehow, on her body and spirit. Like catching the current and riding instead of having to push herself through to a place where the human body doesn't belong. It's a connection, too, to the love and time spent making it, to the contribution of everyone who helped her. Helps pull her back from the Beach to the world of the living, where she belongs with others.

Seeing it break is worse than if her arm had been snapped.

As soon as she can, she goes back for the pieces. There's no danger in it--Higgs could find her easily if he really wanted, which means he thinks her broken into submission. _He's wrong_ , she thinks, burning with it as she picks over the wreckage.

The central pole is snapped in half, that much she'll have to replace. But the shattered panels have endured the timefall unlike her, and can be pieced back together. She does it alone this time. No one's going to help a terrorist. It becomes her routine, delivering during the day, rebuilding at night. Fragile is no engineer, but once everything is attached it's really between her and the Beach. She sits on the sand and turns the broken umbrella over and over in her hands, eyes closed and feeling for the chiral currents. Adjusting until it moves with her intent as easily as her own limbs and points to a truer north than any compass could find.

Like a broken bone set wrong, it never really comes back together the same way. But the new version is sturdier. She won't break twice.

  
  



	4. connective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not that she feels like her old self again, but something new. Tomorrow will be, if not good, at least different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it pains me to say, i was wrong. love is not a symptom of time....

Getting Sam to Amelie’s beach is the hardest jump she’s made. Fragile nearly collapses after, feels her knees hit the ground and knows the skin there is sure to be uglier than usual tomorrow.

Getting everyone back east, though, that’s even worse. But she insists on being useful, taking each person in turn, hand in hand. She hasn’t touched so many people in the whole past year. It’s nice. Being not even needed, really, but wanted around. There’s none of the familiar unease tugging at her to retreat into solitude. Instead she stays in the city with the rest of them. As if she belongs there, with the others.

She feels easier, lighter, even as her body starts to fail her. It’s over. It’s done. And maybe it’s just the blood loss, but it’s almost like her body is emptied out, strangely weightless. No more cargo. It’s done, she just keeps thinking, it’s done. Every agonizing step, every bruise and tear, every night laying awake, it’s all just done.

And now, what? In all her hopes and dreams she never planned for what would happen after. It never really felt like there would be an after, like somehow she and Higgs would just cancel each other out. Matter and antimatter.

It’s not as if it changes anything about her situation, physically. It just...feels different. She delivered what she was meant to deliver: not a bomb, but retribution. Surely, it seems, the rest will sort itself out. Fragile is too exhausted, now, to really think about it. Even standing is a great effort.

“I’m fine,” she says once they’re done with the call to Sam, and stumbles back into Lockne’s arms. Or Malingen, she’s not sure anymore. “I’m fine.” Her voice sounds far away to her own ears. And she is fine, really, she can stand on her own. She’s just going to lie down, rest for a little while.

She makes it just out of the room. At first she thinks she’s somehow jumping without meaning to—that’s the only explanation for the sudden roar of rushing water in her head, the feeling of falling forward into empty space.

She wakes up in a hospital bed.

It’s not her first visit to a Bridges medical unit, but in the past she’s always remembered getting there. The disorientation is unpleasant. She struggles to take in her surroundings, even without the holograms on. 

Deadman is by the bedside, fiddling with something on his cuffs. She reaches for him instinctively, before she can even speak, needs something to keep her anchored in time and space.

“Good, you’re awake.” He squeezes her hand tight, like when they’re crossing her beach. “Don’t move, we’ve got an IV in you.”

She looks at it, automatically. He’s taken off her gloves and rolled up her sleeve as little as possible. Fragile is both thankful for the privacy and surprised at how little she minds it.

“How long?” She manages. Her voice sounds weak, even to her own ears.

“Only a few hours.” That’s good, at least she hasn’t missed anything. Disconcerting, though. She’s fainted before, plenty of times, but only ever for a few moments. “But it will get worse if you aren’t careful. Crossing back and forth so quickly has left a chiral buildup in your cells. Think of it as kind of jet lag. Your body doesn know where or when it is, and is struggling to compensate.”

She can feel it all across her skin. The phantom sensation of grains of sand. She’s spent too long on her Beach and it wants her back. It’s not the first time she’s felt this pull, but it’s never been so strong before, almost a physical tug deep in her chest.

Well, she’s survived worse. “Not a problem. Just get me cryptobiotes.”

He shakes his head. “We don’t stock up like you do. The good news, though,” the order springs up from his cuffs, lighting the space between them with blue, “Is that Sam is bringing some.”

“So I owe him again.”

“Is there anyone here who doesn’t?” Deadman laughs and looks down a little, something shy in his face that Fragile recognizes well. “He’s special.”

She can’t help but smile at that, regardless of how terrible she feels. Special indeed. Even though she doesn’t like this, needing without being needed, it will be good to say goodbye to him under better circumstances.

They talk for a little while, Deadman catching her up on everything she missed, but she can’t manage more than a few minutes. It’s hard to stay focused on anything. Her body is exhausted. She just wants to rest—the kind of rest a bed won’t allow. She can’t shake the desire to go back to her Beach, the feeling that she’s supposed to be there, that it might help. 

But there’s no telling what that would do to her body now. Instead she closes her eyes and tries to lay still, tries to stay aware of her body. It’s funny, she doesn’t feel frustrated or disgusted with her body like she usually does, like she expects to. Just empty. Just tired.

Fragile doesn’t mean to fall asleep. When she opens her eyes, she’s on the Beach. Her Beach. But it’s not hers right now.

The sky is red, the water inky. There are shapes far out in the ocean, forms she doesn't understand. The tide is strong in a way it’s never been here before, like the waves are being pulled from her. Like her Beach is being pulled away. Like she's being pulled with it, though she doesn't understand to where. It's never been like this before. Even at her worst, her Beach was still the same, calm and grey.

She tries to add up what little they know about the Beaches, the Extinction Entity. No matter how she puts it together, it doesn’t look good. Maybe, she realizes horribly, maybe this place never really was hers. Maybe even this wasn’t under her control, all along--

Fragile breathes deep and wills herself calm. She’s done what she needed to do. Whatever happens next, that’s still true. No one and nothing can take that from her. All that remains is to wait. 

She sits back in the sand, like she’s done so many times before, and watches the sky start to bleed into the ocean. The tang of rot and iron slowly overtaking the sea air.

Sam is on his way to where her body is. She wishes, a little bitterly, for him to get there soon.

She regrets hitting him immediately, the sharp sting in her hand resolving into a horrible ache. It will bruise, of course. Worse on her than on him.

Higgs recoils only for a moment and then he’s tilting his head out, spitting blood, daring her to do it again. She’s not sorry for hitting him, but she’s mad at herself for taking the bait. Violence is what he wants, violence and pain and anger are things he knows how to deal with. She’s not going to be fuel for him. A plan is starting to spin itself together in her mind.

Fragile kneels to his level. She holds him firm by the jaw, ignores the ache in her hand. Up close, his face is looking bad. It’s not just his nose that’s broken. Even under the blood, purple-black bruising is starting to bloom over his cheekbones. Despite all he’s done and tried to do, he’s just a delicate human in the end. No mask to hide his face, now.

No mask on him, no gloves on her. Just the two of them. Connected. It’s strange. For as long as she’s known Higgs, she’s never felt his skin. Certainly never seen him like this.

"You want to die." She says again, and that's it, she feels the agreement in his mind sharpen to a point, a horrible absorbing desire sucking her in with him. She doesn’t even have to search for the destination, it’s just--there. He wants it, and it wants him.

It's so oddly familiar, jumping with Higgs. Barely takes any effort at all. She knows him, still, after all this time, the exact weight and motion of him. And he’s surprisingly willing cargo. The easiest, slightest motion brings them from her Beach onto unfamiliar ground.

His Beach is a drownyard. It is utterly, deathly still, the air only disturbed by their sudden appearance. Great hulking wrecks of ships jut out of the black ocean like sunken temples. The sea is water, not tar, but it's brackish and impenetrable. The sky is just as dark. For just a second, they’re both young again and out of depth. She can feel Higgs shaking where they kneel on the shore, more stones than sand. The air feels thick in her lungs somehow, suffocating, smelling of ash and salt and fragrant, burning incense.

Years of idle conversations about his fixation, and she could have just looked at all this and understood. Death, here, is something to be desired, and even more to be revered. Something to be worshiped. A source of strength. Even before everything, he’d always spoken of their powers as a kind of gift from death. A shame, then, that it did him no good.

It’s cold, here. Frigid water sprays off the ocean. A memory hits her, unbidden--slipping on the shore as a child and falling, face-first into the river. Her father had been there to help her, but she never forgot the feeling. The way the cold water had slammed into her chest, knocked the breath from her lungs without warning.

It chokes her up the same way now. Both of them are frozen for a moment, stunned and dizzy. Higgs has never seen his own beach. His expression is pure awe, eyes wider even than when he looked up at her. Her hand has gone slack on his face. But Fragile tries to gather herself. She brought him here for a reason. The gun has traveled with them, and she lays it carefully in the sand.

Higgs doesn’t seem to notice her, just stares out into the water. “You brought me to my Beach.” He says, uncomprehending.

It’s time to get this over with. Her grip firm along his jaw, Fragile turns his face back to her. “You’ll have plenty of time to look around soon.”

Understanding dawns on him, so horrible it tears plainly across his face. She’s never seen such an expression on him. And never will again.

“Too soft to do it yourself, huh. Fucking coward." Higgs sneers at her, the bare remains of that horrible grin still there. The motions are all the same, he's trying to provoke her to violence, but it's hollow. She doesn't want to hit him anymore--not really. There's no pity meant by the lightness of her touch, though. Only resolve. “Come on, I know you want to! Why go to all this trouble if you’re not gonna kill me?”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” _Why force me to live like this?_ She traces gently over his jaw, his cheekbone. It must hurt terribly. “Why give me a choice?” 

Then she stands and backs away, leaving him to think on it. Maybe he’ll find a more satisfying answer than he gave her. However long it might take.

“You think I won’t come calling?” He needles, but it’s toothless. “Eternity’s a long time for me to figure a way out. Won’t leave your pretty face alone next time.”

“You’re welcome to try.” Fragile says, and is surprised at how much she means it. Whatever happens next, this particular connection is already severed. Anything yet to come will be something new. “Our contract is up. Bye, Higgs.”

He thrashes in the sand, a fish dragged out and dying in the air. “You wouldn’t.” The high note of panic swells in his voice now, piercing and overwhelming any attempts at bravado. Those ropes won’t hold much longer, though. She has another moment. And then it has to be done. “You’re a lot of things, Fragile, but you were never cruel.”

It fails to find its mark. Fragile doesn’t look away from him as she prepares to leave. She owes her old friend that much. Just says, simply, “If I were cruel I wouldn’t leave you the gun.” And with a step, it’s over. She’s gone. They’re done.

It’s several months before she sees Sam again.

She’s heard rumors, of course. Everyone misses him, and the others piece together every scrap of information they can get their hands on. Fragile tries not to, and mostly succeeds. If Sam wants to be alone, that’s his choice and no longer any of her business. Nothing owed. Nothing left to say.

If she tried hard enough, she thinks, she could jump to him. She could find him anywhere, after what they’ve been through. But she never gives in to the temptation.

Running the Express keeps her busy. It does help to have friends in Bridges, helps less when she spends more time with researchers than anyone else. There’s a lot to work out, logistically. All contracts—and all hires, more importantly—are through her alone. No taking chances. There’s also the matter of what it means for a private company to have the UCA seal of approval. They haven’t asked her to jump yet, but she can’t be sure how high she’s willing to when the time comes.

She's needed out west this month, helping start the convoys from the fledgling new cities. Even with the network and the beginnings of roads, it's more efficient to have her to cross the country in a single jump than to send anyone else.

Today, she jumps unassisted, her umbrella folded at her side. She steps lightly onto her Beach and lingers, lets the space surround and calm her. It’s warm today, by the standards of her Beach. Fragile pauses to dip her fingers into the ocean, still as usual. It does not cling to her anymore, but lets her go easily.

There’s no urgency today, no schedule to keep, and she’s in the mood for a walk. So she doesn’t search for the distinctive pulse of each knot in the chiral network. Instead she thinks of black tar, rippling and catching the light. Of the ruined cities, mangled rebar and concrete twisting into thin air and the new, reborn cities born precariously out of them. Of the cliffs that descend from the mountains to the sea, red clay and crisp snowmelt rivers and the wildflowers that coat the cliffside like a blanket. She thinks of this and takes a step.

Her feet land on soft grass. Fragile blinks and finds herself on one of those cliffs. It’s a bit of a walk to the newly-rebuilt distribution center on the coast. Longer walk than she would usually take but, she figures, it might be time to start pushing her limits again. See what she's really capable of.

She hikes for the better part of an hour, following the natural angles of the mountain. Pauses to fill her canteen at a stream and check her route. The area isn't as thoroughly mapped as the rest of the country, but she remembers it alright. There should be another hill, and then an easier slope down to the sea.

It's coming up the crest of that hill that she sees another porter. Not such a rare sight as it used to be, but still worth noting, so she waves and calls out and then, suddenly, she's close enough to see.

It's Sam. Formerly Porter Bridges. Standing there in a half-zipped jumpsuit with an actual, real, living, out of the pod baby strapped to his back in a repurposed backpack.

She’s had dreams like this before, sure, and for a moment that’s what she thinks this is. Why else would Sam suddenly be here, in the middle of nowhere? But the Sam in her dreams is always an indistinct figure in the distance, one who dissolves as soon as she comes close. This is--not exactly the man she remembers, but slightly older. As she draws near she can see him in real, living detail. Had she accidentally jumped to him, after all?

He looks as surprised as she is, takes a few steps closer before he can stop himself. "What the fuck." 

"I could ask the same." What the fuck, it's Sam. What the fuck? "You're alive, I see."

"You too?" Sam’s confusion is a mirror of her own. "Fragile. What's this about." He’s tense, his shoulders stiff and high in this caged, nervous way that makes it clear what he's really asking: how did you find me, does anyone else know, did they send you after me?

"Just passing through." He looks so thoroughly unconvinced at that, she almost wants to laugh. Instead she raises her hands a little, a gesture of surrender. "Really. I'm headed for Edge Knot. Business."

They're at a slightly awkward distance for talking, a few yards of gently waving grass between them. But she doesn't want to move closer and risk scaring him off. It hurts a little, thinking of the closeness they had started to share. Now they're acting like strangers--

She tries to shake it off. Nothing owed. No ties.

"What about you?" Her attempt to sound casual comes out painfully stilted. As if it’s normal to just run into Sam, out in the wilderness. "Business?"

He’s still a little wide-eyed, but starting to look less like he might run at any second. "I, uh. I live here." 

It makes sense. It's beautiful here. And more importantly hard to reach. Even other porters tend to follow the coastline rather than cross the mountains.

“Want to work for me?” Fragile asks again, even though she knows the answer will never change. “Can’t be easy out here, single father with no job.”

“I work.” Sam crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “Plenty of people out here didn’t want to join the network.”

“You still take your little one with you?”

“Most of the time, yeah.”

“So you don’t lose _everything_ you touch, then.” It’s unkind. But she can’t help it, can’t keep pretending her way through this meaningless conversation.

It’s silent. Even the wind seems to stop. The reminder of their goodbye hangs sharp in the air, a third presence standing between them. Her skin crawls with it.

The bundle on Sam’s back stirs a little, makes a quiet sound. Just like that, the moment dissolves.

“…no, I guess I didn’t.” Sam's posture relaxes a fraction, his shoulders falling. It's a relief to have it in the open instead of whatever strange dance they were just doing. Better than pretending she doesn't feel anything. She'd rather be furious with each other than be strangers again.

Though she doesn't feel angry, really, or any of the horrible tangle of feelings that she's been trying to push to the back of her mind. Just relieved. Just happy, really, to see him.

“Good.” Fragile says, and means it with her whole heart. “I’m glad. Really, I am. It’s good to see you both safe.”

“You, too.” Sam is looking to the ground, no longer meeting her eyes. “Look, I. Just.” He takes an aborted little step forward. “Would you just come here.” He holds out his hand.

And she’s supposed to be careful but she can’t help it, doesn’t jump so much as leap across space to appear in front of him. 

It’s not quite a hug. But it’s their arms together, steadying. A shaky exhale in unison. A slight leaning towards each other. And that’s more than enough.

They stay like that a long time, silent until the baby starts to cry.

Sam lets her hold Lou--under his watchful eye, of course. It feels even more awkward than when she was in the pod. And she actually has to figure out the proper way to hold her, can’t just lift her. It’s very strange. Fragile has never held a child before. But the kid seems to remember her at least. She doesn’t fuss at all. Just stares up at her

Lou’s gotten so much bigger in just a few months. It’s good to see her sweet little face without the orange glow of the pod between them. She’s going to be a terror as soon as she can walk. It’s weird, holding something living and warm in her arms. Such a delicate thing. Her father’s words come to mind: everything worth something is fragile. 

Fragile has never considered children before and she certainly doesn’t now. But she can understand, a little, holding Lou. It makes her feel like she’s on the right path, that of course there’s a point in working for a better tomorrow. So that this child might grow up safe in the sun.

“If the two of you need anything…” She trails off, unsure what to offer. _I'd go to the ends of the earth to get it for you_ doesn't begin to cover it.

“We’ll manage.” Sam shrugs it off. Never really liked accepting her help, did he.

Nothing she can do about that but shake her head at him. “I know you will.” And she does. Sam is more than capable. “But it wouldn’t kill you to let some people know you’re alright. Myself. Deadman, at least.”

“ _You_ know I’m alright.”

“Do I?”

Sam sighs, runs a hand through his hair. It’s grown so long. She can imagine Lou tugging on it. “Yes. Fuck. I’m alright.” He says it almost as if he's only just realized it himself, that he's alright. "Like I said, we’ll manage.”

“Like I said, I know you will. But...” It’s hard to find the words for exactly what she wants to say. No matter how many times she's turned it over in her head late at night, she can't seem to package her feelings neatly. “I managed for a long time. On my own. I managed, and it was pointless. It wasn’t going anywhere.”

“You would have done fine on your own.” He deflects, uncomfortable. It’s familiar--he had said the same when she tried to thank him before, months ago. He still doesn’t get it. “With Higgs, the company, whatever. You would have figured it out.”

“No, I fucking wouldn’t.” Fragile tries to keep the edge out of her voice, doesn't want to disturb the baby. “I was not doing well, Sam.”

Sam is silent for a moment, making a face that’s equal parts confused and frustrated. There is some kind of understanding, though, starting to creep up on him. “And me almost hitting you with my bike, that helped?”

She laughs, she can’t help it. It just feels like such a relief. It’s so very _Sam_ of him. Of course he’s still mad about his fucking bike. She is so, so happy to see him. 

Lou makes a sound to match her laughter. She waves her little arms, curling and uncurling her fingers like she wants something. It’s nice, seeing her move without the confines of the pod. Fragile gives her a little wave back.

“Lou,” she coos at the baby, “Is your father being an idiot?”

“Hey,” says Sam. Lou giggles, and grabs her finger with one tiny hand.

It feels good to move.

The sun and air feels good on her skin, at least as much of it as she can safely expose. Gloves are a necessity for climbing like this--rope burns are a nightmare on skin as delicate as hers.

Sam is on his own rope, a little further up. This is probably going to be her last day off for a while, and he’d suggested a climb. They started from the farm, where they've been promised a fresh meal on the way back. South from there, the farmland had turned into rocky soil and then to hard cliffs, jutting out of the continent where it meets the sea. Fragile can hear the waves faintly, louder the higher they climb.

Her contract is done up and sealed. Starting tomorrow, Fragile Express will run in official partnership with the UCA. And she'll be running with it, handling her own deliveries. She hasn't told Sam the news yet. It just didn’t seem right to, before it’s official. It doesn’t even entirely feel real to her. Part of her still thinks she’s going to wake up any day now and all this will be gone.

Her muscles are starting to ache. But it’s the good kind of exhaustion and fatigue, the satisfying feeling that comes from hard work. It’s a feeling that makes her just think _her_ and not _her body_. Not a separate thing at all but herself, strong and vital.

The years to come, Fragile knows, are not going to be easy. There is no medical model for someone like her, no knowing how she will age on different timelines. But she can bet it won’t be pretty.

Still, today she is here and alive and not alone, and that's something. It's not that she feels like her old self again, but something new. Tomorrow will be, if not good, at least different.

She digs her heel into the sheer rock face, again and again until it doesn’t slip. It takes longer than it used to. "You good?" Sam calls from the ridge above her.

"I'm fine!" She shouts back over the roar of the wind and the ocean. "I'm not that fragile."

She breathes deep, readies her body, and pulls hard. Drags herself up over the ridge. It’s harder than it used to be, but it feels triumphant. It’s taken her so much just to get to that point.

They rest on that ridge for a moment, catching their breath before moving on. “You could change the name, yknow.” Sam says to her as they pause and stretch. “Know you like that line, but you don't have to keep it.”

Fragile tosses her rope back over the side. The last bit they’ll have to do by hand. “That’s a lot, coming from Sam Porter Bridges.”

It’s not that she hasn’t thought about it. She used to wonder about it, how much would be different if she had been named something else. But it always brings her back to her father’s words. She would be another person, that different name.

“It’s just Sam.” They start climbing again, the last crag ahead of them leaning out towards the sea. It’s not steep, at least, and easy to grip. There’s just enough space for them to climb side by side without being worried about touching. “The rest, the stuff other people decided...it’s heavy.” His tone isn’t bitter, but thoughtful, contemplative. “Think you know what I mean.”

“I do.” It is heavy, but she carries it alright. And she always sees her deliveries through in the end. “I’m not changing my name. It’s my father’s.” No, that’s not quite true anymore. “It’s mine.” 

Sam looks at her. There’s something in his face she can’t read, but it’s not disapproving. Maybe a little curious, or maybe that’s just her imagination. However he feels, he doesn’t push the issue, and they take the rest of the climb in peaceful silence. They don't need to talk. She has always appreciated this about Sam.

Fragile gets ahead of him as they near the top, where the sharp rock evens out into a ledge with enough room for both of them. She pulls herself over and to her feet, feels the sheer relief of solid ground under her. Then without thinking much, she kneels and reaches her hand over the side to help.

Sam takes her hand to pull himself up, and she thinks no matter how many times it happens it’s always going to make her smile. He is such a far cry from the man she met in the cave.

Her name hasn’t changed but she’s a different person now, too. The person back then was as stagnant and trapped as an insect failing to shed its skin. Or really, it’s more like she was out of her body entirely. Now she feels everything she can, from the firm shock of the earth through her soles to the sea breeze ruffling her hair.

Sam drops her hand once he can stand easy. He's clearly been here before, and waves her over to the edge with a slight smile of satisfaction.

The view is so dizzying that Fragile has to kneel to remain steady. The center of the country spreads out before them. Up here, the air is crisp and clear. A slight spray of water drifts up from the sea, lends the scent of salt to the air. In the distance, she can faintly see the falls crashing. She traces the river where it moves like a vein, rejoins the body of the land. Sam makes a soft noise of appreciation behind her.

The ocean roars beneath them, quieter now that they’ve climbed so high. Dark clouds are rolling in from the sea, promising a storm. Here at the edge, the last bit of light sneaks through the cloud cover, bright and warm when it touches her face. 

Sam joins her on the ground, a safe distance beside her. “We should head back before it rains,” he says, quiet, but makes no move to leave.

“You can go ahead.” Her umbrella opens with a flutter, spinning above them. “I’ll catch up.”

She’s not ready to let go of this view. It’s been a while since she saw the real ocean, not just the one on the Beach. Something about its motion seems to pull at her. On the other side of their peak is an ocean of its own kind, a sea of wheat that waves gold in the rising wind. Fragile removes her gloves, lets her fingertips drag on the ground. The world seems very alive, today.

She can see too, the scar in the landscape where part of South Knot used to be. It’s blackened still, like burnt skin. But it seems less raw today, soft at the edges, beginning to grow and blend into the world around it.

The first drops of rain begin to hit the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i appreciate those who read through all of this! funnily enough i'm no longer really satisfied with the writing but it was a very enjoyable, indulgent, and personal thing to make. i didn't really expect anyone to give it a look so to know that other people enjoy my work with this character is very touching. thank you again for reading, and travel safe.


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